


your kiss is a confession

by onetraveller



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetraveller/pseuds/onetraveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he apologizes for his past coming back, she bristles ever-so-slightly, because she used to be under the impression that she was his past." </p><p>Exploring Mary's psyche from 1x05 - 1x07 as she deals with Olivia, her kiss with Bash and the castle being invaded and a bit of a fix-it fic for 1x05 and 1x06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your kiss is a confession

Mary has been a queen her entire life. Six days old and she ascended the throne. She doesn’t know how to be anything but a queen. Everything is shaped around this absolute.

She does not remember much about Scotland but the rolling hills and the sweet air. But, let this be clear, she is a Scot through and through, surrounded by the Scottish her entire life even in foreign courts. Her mother wouldn’t let her leave without at least a small army of ladies and demanding uncles with her.

She was sent to live at French court at age five, for her protection and to secure her engagement. Despite this, she’s never been much like the French. She thinks they care more about appearances than the English, which is saying something. Their country seems more refined, their judgment harsher. But she sees something in them – their barely disguised fire that reminds her of her Scots, always brimming, threatening to overflow.

Catherine would have the castle filled with children for Francis’s benefit – the children of the wealthiest and noblest families running around court, pulling on pigtails and slipping on marble floors. Francis was a quieter, more inquisitive child than most; Mary was energetic and carefree. She would take his hand and drag him across the castle, laughing between reciting instructions for the many games she had created. He would always make it into a race, knowing full well he would win.

She remembers those days like the back of her hand – where being a queen meant writing to her mother regularly, learning Latin and never fully bowing to others.

(she remembers her mother’s voice, clear and lilting,

“You do not bow to others Mary. You are a queen. Make sure they remember it.”)

She and Francis would conspire to run from their teachers on particularly beautiful days and try to sneak past the guards – unsuccessfully most of the time. She remembers these things with sharp clarity, so vivid in her mind that she’s sure she could retrace their steps from memory alone.

She thinks that’s why it hurts so deeply. When he apologizes for his past coming back, she bristles ever-so-slightly, because she used to be under the impression that _she_ was his past. It all hits her quite suddenly, the images of all the beautiful French ladies-in-waiting kissing Francis, admiring ... _loving_. And she’s not stupid – she knows the privileges men have over women. She had forgotten that most royals did not live like her.

But, she thinks what hurts the most is the way he looked at _her._

The way Francis held Olivia – no care that the entire French court saw it – whispering, stroking her face, wiping her tears. It reminds her too much of the way he’s held her and Mary thinks how foolish she’s been to think that she’s the only one he’s held like that. Mary hears the whispers and feels the eyes on her back. The young queen has lost her prince already they say.

She wants Olivia gone.

She will **not** become Catherine.

\--

Mary’s never been good at waiting and she’s never dealt well with discovering things from third-parties. So she drinks too fast, and eats too little and by the time Francis finds her she’s not sure whether she wants to scream or cry. She tries to keep her voice level, but she sees his face and all that resolve flies out of the window.

Francis talks of not wanting Olivia to live with people who will resent her, forgetting that Mary lives in a castle with a thousand enemies ready to exploit any weakness they find. It boils her blood. Francis, who speaks of duty and the stakes of life at court, forgets so easily of what this all means for Mary.

Francis has this _thing_ , this _tell_ , where he raises his chin ever-so slightly, and his eyebrows shoot up to his forehead when he’s trying furiously to defend a (stupid) decision.

“Has something happened between you two?”

He starts to laugh, shoulders hunched up, with an expression that makes it clear that something _has_ happened between the two of them.

“Francis! _Tell me!_ Or I’ll imagine the worst.”

Her voice is high and she can feel anger coursing through her veins. She thinks how cruel it is, to be so happy one morning and to be so miserable the next.

 _He_ was, Bash had said. _He_ had been heartbroken. The words become lodged in her heart, sharp and jagged.

This is a battle she knows she is justified in fighting. Mary has always been a quick learner and despite living in a convent she understands the difference between men and women in society. Their perceived _duties_. Men are _allowed_ mistresses, their little _transgressions_. She sees the way Diane is treated in court. Meanwhile Mary’s body is a literal battleground, used as a bargaining chip, to be _protected_ , so that _she,_ a _queen_ remains legitimate and respected.

And so when Francis attempts to talk about respect and _his_ court she can barely get the words out.

“Respect goes both ways!”

She nearly screams right there and then. Yes, she is a foreign queen in a foreign court. What use is her crown here? It is nothing. And whose fault is that she wants to ask. So she brings up his father – uses the strongest weapon in her arsenal.

The whole affair leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She almost takes the head off a poor server to get to the nearest glass of alcohol. Red running through her veins she is overcome by everything. Her feelings for Francis, her fear of becoming like Catherine, the stark reminder that she will always be out-of-place in a court that is not hers as long as Francis puts others before her (countries, she understands, but people she doesn’t), it all hits her. Mary understands politics – while Francis has been given lessons and dusty tomes to read, Mary has lived it every day she remembers. She’d known how to use politics in her favor to negotiate treaties and companies of men, and she knows how to appeal to Francis’s sense of justice. Politics is the necessary avenue she uses to do what is right. So she understands his sense of duty, though it often does not work in her favour, understands putting France above all their needs. But to put _Olivia_ before her after questioning his own _mother_ ... it’s unfathomable.

(this is francis’s biggest mistake:

he forgets that she’s just a girl, and she’s not always as strong as she looks, forgets that she too has an armor that can be broken)

She wants to forget and be vindicated in her anger.  So she drinks glass after glass and when it’s still not satisfying she finds the one person who won’t give her sermons on this much alcohol being unseemly for a royal.

The alcohol is stronger, bitterer. Wine is sweet and lulls her into calmness when she wants to be angry. So she yells about Francis to his brother and it’s all so messy, she thinks.

“It was so _fooolish_ of me to think that we were _just_ a boy and _just_ a girl. I mean, that _implies_ ” she says, her words getting slurred and angrier, “that one is free to leave when one is unhappy. And while **_I_** am **stuck** here with, no – no recourse, he’s free to do _whatever_ he wants with _whoever_ he wants.”

She fell in love with the one person she was supposed to and the one person that could do her the most damage.

She doesn’t want to _understand_ right now. Doesn’t want to consider how she loves his duty to his country, doesn’t want to think about his stupid loyalty to his friends, doesn’t want to think about how their marriage is in the hands of the King, doesn’t want to think about how _stupid_ he can be when he’s angry. No.

So when Bash showers her with compliments and listens to her, the alcohol gets to her and she thinks about hurting Francis, and she thinks about how simple this is. A kiss that doesn’t overwhelm her and sink into every square inch of her skin, a kiss that doesn’t linger on her lips for days after. So she falls into it, deeper, and deeper until he reaches out to hold her cheek and her breath catches because it feels like something, no, _someone_ else. The regret starts pooling in her heart immediately, slowly suffocating her.

Jealousy and fear make a deadly combination.

 (Mary’s greatest weakness and greatest strength is the same: she feels far too much)

\--

Mary does not dwell on things  – she does not have the luxury to. Living in constant danger has taught her to try to enjoy life. And the longer they pretend they are fine, the longer she will live in misery.

So when she sees Francis she’s not afraid to tell him that she’s slowly  being destroyed by the rift between them. When Francis smiles, the sun cowers behind its brightness, but when he doesn’t the world seems a little darker.

Mary does not repeat her mistakes.

(she’s the queen of Scotland; her price for repeating mistakes is her head)

She does not know how to properly articulate how her kiss with Bash meant nothing and so she does not tell him.  Bash is her friend, a confidante, but nothing more. Her words have a way of getting warped in French court and this is something she cannot risk. Not with Francis. So, she keeps silent though it hangs around her neck like a noose.

The kiss, she realizes, is much more than a metaphorical noose when there is blood dripping down on to her bed, and the dead eyes of a stag staring back at her. She almost laughs – now the supernatural want her head too. If she had half as many allies as she does enemies, she’d be the most powerful ruler in Europe.

(and so there are some days she’d be content with burning them all to the ground)

These are the things she learns that morning:

She does not have the patience for politics after being traumatized. Especially with a queen who knows too much about how to drug her.

Francis will never sell her out in front of others, despite the ocean between them. No, he will never betray her in public willingly. He will protect her from his mother, and the world if need be.

And though she questions his feelings for her, she understands the human touch and the way he holds her hands tells her a whole different story than what his lips say. His touch is gentle and soft, filled with regret and restraint. 

But when they all leave; the servants, the guards, the queens and bastards, all they are left with this pain between them. He takes a step forward, before shaking his head and murmuring something about having more guards at her door.

She takes a deep breath and walks over to the window where he stood not a moment ago. _A new day, a new threat, Mary._ She closes her eyes, letting the fear wash over her. A moment. That is all she is allowed.

(she’s never allowed to be just a girl)

\--

She spends the day watching the servants be questioned. She appeals to their sense of humanity while Catherine hangs death over their heads. Cooped up in a room, she’s gone stir-crazy trying to figure out how to fix this mess, and so the moment she gets out she tries to find Francis in hopes that he’ll have found more answers than her.

She is met with coldness, anger and fear.

 “I knew my brother had feelings for you. I just had no idea how deep they ran.”

She looks down, shame gracing her features. “You needn’t worry about that. But there is something I should tell you.”

He cuts her off, voice shaking. “If you mean to tell me you’ve been in his arms, you needn’t bother. I saw you. I saw you _both._ ”

 “It was a _mistake_ , I wasn’t thinking. And he -,” she can explain everything on her part, but to do so on Bash’s is harder.

“He what? **_Forgot_** that he was my _brother?!”_ His voice echoes around the hallway but in this moment she can’t even bring herself to care about all the eyes burning holes into her back because the look on his face feels like a hammer to her chest.

“Forgot that you were my _fiancée?”_ he says, voice lowered. “I know that I’ve made mistakes with Olivia, but it seems like the biggest mistake I made was being completely honest with you. I’ve been nothing but since you returned and each time I’ve paid the price. And tonight, Bash is paying the price as well.”

(here is the thing francis forgets in his anger: telling mary he kissed olivia had never been in his plans, but mary had been far too perceptive)

She walks after him, feeling emptied and hollowed out.

“I didn’t realize!”

 “I _warned_ you of the stakes at life at court. I told you we can’t act on whim, on _feeling._ You didn’t listen!”

“I did!” Her voice is slightly broken, infused with anger, regret, sadness and everything in between, but she was taught to never cry in front of others.

“Then why are we here now? And who will my brother be when he returns?”

Yes, she had listened to Francis. She listened enough to understand how to play court politics and treat marriages as alliances to be made and broken, understood how to shield her deck at hand. She’s been a queen all her life, and she’s known the stakes all her life, paying the price time and time again for her people.

Nobody had warned her that court politics included affairs of the heart.

She does not crumble to pieces though every fiber of her being screams for her to do so.

\--

Mary was six when one of her friends spoke back to her in public. Her uncle had taken her aside, and asked her plainly if she’d like to see the girl beheaded. She understands the horrific realization Francis comes to as he warns Bash of his power, yes, this she understands. _This_ is not the threat – this is a young prince realizing the stakes of life at court. Understanding the great and terrible power he holds at his hands coupled with the love of family. It is a terrible burden Mary knows all too well.

And so she is foolish enough to think that asking them to be true to another is what will ensure their happiness. 

“Not if we _promise!”_

Francis looks at her, a pained expression gracing his delicate features.

“What is our engagement but a promise? And it means **_nothing_** because unless it makes sense for France I _can’t_ marry you, and if a better option arises for Scotland you need to take it. It is your duty.”

She feels as if she has been transported back in time. He has the same look in his eyes that he did when he told her to marry Tomas and she feels her heart sinking. Does not understand all the talk of engagements and promises because she doesn’t think she could have made it any clearer. She chose him. Not France, but Francis. He stands in front of her talking about duty while she is drowning in her heart.

 “What are you saying?”

“We have positioned ourselves for the worst sort of pain. When it is right for France, should you agree,” and he says these words, _should you agree,_ like a plea, and Mary does not understand because she agreed so long ago she didn’t think it was worth repeating.

“I will be by your side. Fully committed. Until then ...”

He turns his back to her and he straightens his shoulders.

 “... you can spend your time with others. I have to accept that.”

She takes a sharp breath, her mind unraveling the words, digging for the roots.

And then.

She feels it in the tip of her fingers. White, blind rage. Francis is offering her the company of others – other men – when it is clear that such acts are reserved for Kings only. Mistresses and courtesans pressing kisses against the neck of kings, while the queens sit in church asking God to forgive sins they have not committed.

 “You mean I do!”

She sees blonde hair, blue eyes and lips that only whisper sweet things. She hears the whispers that follow her, the tut-tuts of all the ladies in court at _her,_ hears _Olivia_ fall from his lips _._

These are the things she does not hear: the tremors in his voice.

These are the things she does not see: his eyes filled with nothing but misery.

 She sees another pair of lips kissing Francis, another pair of hands, and it feels like stepping on a thousand knives.

“Is this really about Olivia?”

She thinks first love is a double edged sword when you’re not each other’s.

“Someone needs to take control of things between us.”

Mary thinks that he did not answer her question.

 “I can do it. I can keep my distance. Even if it means releasing you to another.”

He doesn’t look at her.

 “ _Anyone._ But _not_ my brother.”

She waits, until the sound of his footsteps fade into the distance before she turns because words are not her friend at the moment. The pain and anger mingle together and threaten to drown her. Francis talks of being rash, and of not letting emotions dictate their actions but what Mary sees before her is the result of jealousy, fear, and a misguided sense of duty.

These days, it seems, Mary is stuck in a constant state of flux between anger and sadness.  

\--

She watches the pagans burn that night, hears the arrow go through Sarah’s head and she thinks, what a fleeting life they have. The ground beneath their feet is quicksand, and she needs to hold on before it all disappears before her.

“I’m going to speak to Francis,” she announces.

She sees Lola’s opinion painted all across her face.

“My mind’s made up. It’s okay. I promise.” She rests a hand on Lola’s shoulder for a moment before walking up to Francis’s bedchambers.

The guards straighten up instantly as they see her, although the expressions on their faces are one that she does not quite understand.

“Your Majesty.” They bow their heads in respect.

“I wish to speak to the Dauphin.”

They look uncomfortably at one another, and back at her. The servants and guards had always taken a liking to Mary, sweet with her disposition and gentle with her orders. She does not understand this hesitancy. It is before supper, and despite Francis’s clear disregard for their betrothal, she is no doubt, still engaged to him.

Then.

“He’s not here is he?” She closes her eyes. “Is he in ... the west wing?”

They do not say a word, but Mary’s gotten very good at reading between the lines at French court.

“Thank you.” Her mouth is filled with bitterness and she tastes betrayal on her lips.

The lips that kissed her not even three days ago trailing across someone else’s lips, neck, arm ... hands that had held hers softly, firmly, protectively, now holding Olivia’s, tracing patterns across her skin, placing imprints and memories on her body.

She thinks she’s going to be sick.

\--

It’s all around the castle by morning. She doesn’t even have to ask the servants to hear of the locked doors, quiet sighs and the dauphin leaving Olivia’s room in the dead of night.

(they do not tell Mary that he called out her name)

 

When Mary sees Francis at breakfast, she can’t help but be pleased that he looks just as miserable as she feels, if only for an unguarded moment.

“I hope you had a good evening, Mary.” Catherine passes the sugar to her, her smile as deadly as poison.

“Oh yes. Delightful. I watched them burn the pagans.” She looks straight at Francis. “How was your evening Francis?”

She leans over to set the sugar back on the table.

Francis chokes on his croissant.

\--

Catherine had, of course, requested that Mary watch the King and his men ride to battle with her.  No doubt to torture Mary some more.

“I know Francis is not the type to bed a girl he does not love.”

Her words sit like shrapnel in Mary’s heart.

“I’m so pleased that you’ve made room for her in your life as I made room for Diane.”

Her hands hurt from always being clenched in anger these days.

She turns to leave, disregarding etiquette in favour of preserving dignity. She needs to see Francis.

She has replayed his words in her mind a thousand times.

 _We have positioned ourselves for the worst sort of pain._ _Should you agree I will be by your side._

The force of the initial emotion has cleared and in the light of morning she is left with a sense of clarity. Understands that in some twisted way, Francis created their _arrangement_ partly out of respect for her feelings, and partly because she had hurt him deeply. She tries to rationalize, but in the end, she’s left with anger – the image of him walking away with Olivia imprinted on her mind.

She hates this stupid _plan_ of his. It has put them both in misery, and she doesn’t think she can stand another moment of it.

She walks in on some sort of pseudo diplomacy lesson with Charles and she can’t help the small smile that creeps up on her face seeing him playing with his borother. But it is as quick to disappear as it is to emerge once he starts talking about Italian counts and his _mother._

 “Is that why your father has asked you to stay?”

“You must be greeted by a King or a Dauphin, or else it’s an insult.”

“Well, at least you’ll have more _time_ to spend with Olivia. _In bed._ ” It falls out of her mouth almost instantly, her patience worn thin.

He has the decency to look ashamed but her anger is unyielding.

“We agreed our engagement was strictly business.”

No, she thinks, one of us had an agreement.

“‘Till it’s _not._ I _hate_ this plan of yours Francis. Do you have _any_ idea how it feelsto watch you _parade_ your lover around court?”

“I did no such thing. I can’t help it if the servants gossip.”

“Well _I_ am in a nunnery of one, listening to your mother _crow_ over me. Is this what you really want? Are we _any_ happier than we were before?”

“No. But we don’t know what the future holds! We could be married off to other people _tomorrow_ if it were necessary.”

Francis worries incessantly about the future while Mary wants to live in the present. Kiss him and hold him until the day she is ripped apart from him. He wants to hold her at arm’s length so he does not get hurt. Instead, Mary thinks, he has put them in a constant state of misery.

“I didn’t mean to hurt  -,” he begins, reaching out for her but she flinches at even the idea of his touch – his touches that spell out words on her skin that are the opposite of what he says. No, she has a threshold of tolerance and this is most certainly it.

“I just needed to forget you. For a while. To forget that I can’t have you.”

And she’s caught in his eyes for a moment, trapped in those pools and then

“Mary, to stay sane we must stay apart.”

If she were a child she’d kick him in the shins for his stupidity. She wants to scream _but I’m right here!_ But she is a young queen so she glares at him, and stalks off.

\--

But here’s the thing about Mary Stuart: she is as quick to forgive as she is to get angry and she loves more than she hates.

\--

“How did the negotiations go?”

 “They’re taking Francis.”

The wind is knocked out of her and she has to force the next words out.

“F-for ransom?”

Her anger melts away like ice on a hot summer’s day and is replaced with an ice cold fear that spreads from her heart to the tip of her fingers. 

“He gave himself up. To save you. And the rest of us.”

“He would.”

Mary knows Francis like the back of her hand, can trace his actions from point A to point B with a full explanation of his reasoning with these things, so she knows he wouldn’t even take a moment to think before protecting her no matter the price. Knows that beneath all the politics and conflicts, he would rather die than see a hair on her head harmed and the prospect scares her to death.

 In times of crisis, people like Francis (and her) are the ones who end up harmed; those who would do anything for the ones they loved.

(it is what she would do)

So she strikes a deal with the devil.

“It seems we will go into hell together then.”

\--

She knows Francis will never listen to his mother when she’s to be the bait, knows that he will have to be guilted and prodded into agreeing to leave her behind.

He reacts exactly as she had predicted.

“I’ve seen the way the Count looks at you. You’re asking me to _leave_ you with him. With my _mother_. You know you can’t trust her. No, if I get out of this room the first thing I’ll do is come for you.”

She feels like she’s been stabbed in the gut. She had once wished that Francis was willing to put her above everyone else and now that she’s gotten her wish she wants to throw it back into the pits of hell, wants to get on her knees, hands clasped, and lay down her crown because she doesn’t want it anymore. No, she needs him to put himself above her, above everyone else but she knows that he never will.

(it’s why she loves him)

 “If you come for me, they will _kill_ you, and your brothers will be lost.”

He takes her hands, gripping them tightly. “I won’t leave you! This is _not_ negotiable.”

He looks at her, the realization that this might be the last time they see each other seeping into his eyes and he holds her tighter. 

 “Mary, I ...” _love you_

He says her name like a prayer and she knows. Knows by the way he holds her hands, knows by the way he looks at her ... the force of it nearly takes her breath away.

“I know.” She stops him because she refuses to hear it in these moments between life and death. _Clear head, Mary_. His voice is in her head and she thinks if any of this is to work they must step into the roles they were assigned.

“I’m sorry. About Olivia, about all the foolish ways I’ve tried to manage things.”

She shakes her head because it is all so irrelevant and petty – none of it matters to her anymore.

“None of that matters now.” She tries to find the one thing that will make him walk away from her. “Your brothers, the others who are _trapped_ here, they are _our_ people now.”

He steps away from her and she can feel the conflict raging within him.

“If we are to rule as King and Queen, we must trust each other to do what is necessary.” She takes a breath. “I believe that you can lead them to safety ... believe that I can get myself out of that room.”

This is what she doesn’t say: _I would go to that room a thousand times over if it meant saving you._

“My god, Mary.”

He crosses the distance between them and presses his lips against hers desperately. When Francis kisses her it is akin to pouring out his soul and offering it to her. His kiss is every word unsaid, every word that royals do not have the luxury for in times of crisis, it spreads through her body through her heart and down to her toes.

It scares her to death.

He kisses her like he’s dying and it’s the last time he’ll hold her, touch her, kiss her.

“Promise me you won’t come back.”

The door opens and the last image of Francis she’s left with is the face of someone who’d burn the world to the ground to get to her. She looks at anything but him as she leaves, his hands imprinted on her neckcheekheart.

\--

 She wears red that night not out of vanity but practicality. The question is not if there will be blood in her hands, but whose.

\--

Her words are weak, she knows, but making up stories in these times have never been her strong suit. But she understands the way people like the Count work; show them human, _feminine_ frailty and they are none the wiser. When you live your life under a sword you quickly learn that in the end, you must be able to save yourself in any way you can. So she learnt how to make weapons of needles and armors out of corsets.

But she forgets that all people are not like her protectors, that all are not like her and Francis. Forgets that just because Olivia loves Francis it doesn’t mean she would do anything for him. Forgets people fear things greater than the blood of a queen on their hands.  

She wishes she were made of steel and fire so she could break stone with her bare hands as she desperately pounds on the doorway, her ladies in her peripheral and she thinks she cannot let them die.

She has no choice but to follow the guard back to that damned room when he finds them and she’s so afraid that she’s only delaying death. Or worse.

She could kill Catherine with her bare hands when she _offers_ their _bodies_ up. She screams and attempts to negotiate because it is all she has left. She wants her hands to turn to poison, her body to go up in flames so that she may take the Count with her.

And then.

“Poison is art. And the essence of art is surprise.”

She comes to the realization a moment before the Count. _He never touched the gold._ She is still on the table, heart in her throat and she’s _finally_ in reach of a weapon.

_The essence of art is surprise._

She does not hesitate.

Her mother’s words echo in her mind. _If they ever touch you Mary, forget the heart, slice their jugular._

So she does and stabs the fork in harder for good measure.

\--

She’s a Queen and he, a future King. Their duty is to their people.

(but the moment Francis’s eyes meet hers, she reaches out instinctively and for a precious moment she allows herself to _feel_ and be comforted and _breathe_. she feels his heart, rapid and then slow and she holds him tighter until she can’t discern whose heartbeat she’s feeling.)

Francis takes Kenna to the infirmary while Mary and Catherine open the gates to the castle.

(but first she picks up her crown because it is the last time that they’ll forget she is a queen)

They are up all night sending the requisite letters, burning the proper bodies and reinforcing the castle walls.

They gather them in the throne room, Francis and her at either side of Catherine. She refuses to take her dress off.

_It is a symbol of our resilience tonight._

By the time Henry returns, and the castle is once again at peace, dawn has broken.

\--

It’s only after, as the adrenaline wears off that she lets the fear in. A thousand images of Francis lying on the floor flood her mind. Sleep is a distant memory and the only thing that will quiet her shaking hands is Francis in her arms.

She forgets propriety and the rising sun as she finds her way to his chambers.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mary.” Her name is a whisper, a feather-light caress and the sound of it breaks her.

 “Why? Why did you come back? You didn’t know the gold was poisoned! It was one man against ten! They would’ve **killed** you, why would you do something so _stupi -!”_ she screams, slamming her hands against his chest because the mere _idea_ of losing him is enough to make her stop functioning.

“Because I love you!” His hands cup her cheeks and her hands are tangled in his shirt and over his arms and it takes her breath away.

“What?” It comes out as a whisper, a sigh.

“Because it’s pretty obvious that for us to stay sane, we need to be together.”

A thousand words and emotions threaten to crash over her but she needs this so desperately to be more than the fear and the events of the night talking.

 “But, what about having control of our live-,” she begins but his kiss slowly takes her doubt away, and then again, and again.

So when he asks her when she wants him to stop, the answer falls from her lips as easily as breathing.

“Never.”

And for the first time in a very long time Mary finally feels at

peace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as a small oneshot so I could rage about 1x05-1x06 but then it kind of spiralled from there and became this. None of this would have been possible without my wonderful, always enthusiastic and encouraging beta Sabrina - thank you so much!


End file.
